


Doublethink

by infradead



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, F/M, Gaslighting, Gen, Gender-neutral Reader, Hypnotic Induction, M/M, Mutual Pining, Reader-Insert, Romance, Self Hypnosis, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-29 00:47:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10842978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infradead/pseuds/infradead
Summary: He tastes nothing of cigars, nothing of sweet stars of Bethlehem nor even venom.It is your part to make it so, just as is Ocelot’s.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been like a year and a half since this game released and I am somehow _still_ bitter that we didn't get a completed chapter three. Might be drops and hints of Ocelot/Reader and Kaz/Reader in the future. ;)
> 
> This was originally posted over at Lunaescence Archives. What started out as more or less a drabble/ficlet set turned into some good inspiration for me to at least continue it. There are some minor adjustments along with major additions to the original. Have at it!
> 
> Need some music? Have some [MGS3 throwback.](https://youtu.be/qXWJyZ_GSTA)

You have never imagined how soon could feel until you laid eyes on two familiar men approaching your docked ship on horseback. Nor how beautiful and bittersweet the tormented edges of flames licking and lapping at what was left of the Cyprus hospital appears against the backdrop of stars. Even here the smoke is thicker, darker than the sky as it plumes in columns against the rushing rain.

Hastily you wipe the lenses clean of your intel scope, dragging your view back onto the disgruntled man sagging tiredly against Ocelot’s dampened greatcoat. Even from here you know that face--something familiar stirs in discomfort against your chest, and just as rapidly as it comes you fight it down to the last breath. A blink, a shiver--you look away and draw your binoculars down and into your many pockets, rubbing away the weariness in your eyes. 

For the first time you shiver against this cool rain, standing at the brightly lit starboard and awaiting the trotting to near and climb aboard. Water droplets roll off your raincoat--a provision Ocelot had hastily suggested and pressed to your chest while he was fitting his boot into a stirrup. Even as you step inside and start heading down to the prepared room, the muffled groaning of the ship here only reminds you how homesick you really do feel. Has it really been nine years? Nine years of _him_ gone from this world, presumed to be dead by his enemies and allies alike?

Nine years without him at Mother Base, with you at his side, with him beside _you_.

“Commander?” A cadet on the ship turns a corner and nearly barrels into you, breathless and all. He’s wet as rain but everyone on this ship, down to the captain at the helm had been handpicked and selected carefully by Ocelot himself.

“They want you down there, commander, in Room 24B. For when--well the Boss _has_ arrived.”

 _To see you_ , is heavily implied. _Particularly you_ , even more so. You nod, thank, and swerve around him while double-timing your efforts to close the gap, all the while minding it.

The truth is, your heart is beating a mile a minute.

The _truth_ is not as pretty as it seems.

That guilt settles itself nicely inside of you--at the pit of your stomach, poking and prodding discomfort there to see if you’ll physically garner a reaction. A lot can happen in a nine-year comatose. Nothing that needs to be said on record, toyed with, revealed. You tell yourself your heart beats madly because it’s _him_ , but at the same time it’s _not_ him.

24B is etched on the wall and the door is closed, and your footsteps pause outside of it, wondering if it’d be more courteous to knock.

That washing warmth of Southern twang is all you need to know. But instead of being allowed in, Ocelot, already shucked out of his greatcoat, squeezes through the doorway, relief on his face upon seeing that it’s you and not another cadet on board.

“Where is he?” It comes out as a whoosh of breath through your lungs. “I need to see him--”

You move to rush past him but he’s taller, bigger in every way (to _hell_ with him), and he stops you with a firm grip on either side of you. His thumbs brush almost comfortingly, warmly against your upper arms as he shakes his head, but you know better than that. 

So does he.

If that glint in his eye means anything, it’s only something that should mean _anything_ to you.

You’re concerned for Big Boss. Any rightful soldier from Mother Base should be. Behind closed doors, though, you suppose you’re not just _any_ rightful soldier.

The thought makes you flush. You puzzled over how Ocelot managed the deed, wondered how much detail Big Boss indulged him, and know that nothing was spared. He knows how this must look.

“The man needs some rest,” Ocelot quietly says, as if the lurching of the whaling ship isn’t as bothersome as he’s led to believe.

“He’s had his rest for _nine_ years, I need to see him.”

That warm grip on your arms, pressed against the Diamond Dogs patch sewn there as per uniform regulation--it suddenly tightens at your words, how much space is really _left_ between you and the man you’ve barely had time to be acquainted with becoming stark and clear.

“ _Need?_ ” The word sounds low and dangerous coming from his mouth, teasing, lilting, knowing. Tremoring thoughts about him and Big Boss speaking, about _you_ and what to pick and choose to leave out of _his_ head.

The thought is enough for you to drive your shoulder into his chest, pushing into the room despite Ocelot’s protest.

There is no need for you to run leaping into his arms, to bury your face into his chest to remember what nine years had felt like without him. There is no need because, true to Ocelot’s word, the man himself--believe it or not--is knocked out cold on a cot wedged into the corner of the room. 

Ocelot’s presence is more or less ignored at your side as you survey him from the doorway, chest rising up and down softly, catching up on more rest than he already needs.

He looks _just_ like him.

And that breaks your heart.

Your footfalls are quiet, slow when you first approach him. Unsure as you begin to reach for his wrist, but then freezing when you notice him shiver just as your fingertips come into contact above his skin. Another wet droplet from your raincoat pelts his arm and you carefully shrug out of it, hanging it off to the side as you seat yourself on the edge of the cot.

“Get him a blanket,” you throw over your shoulder to Ocelot, who appears disgruntled to be the one following any commands.

You don’t care who or what is giving the orders. All that matters is him. His blood-soaked bandages, that sad hook and prosthetic he has left to call an arm. The deep fissures of scars that crack his face, what little the comatose had left for his body. And yet he seems at peace--a peace you can’t seem to grasp or understand. And it hits you--it shouldn’t have, but it does.

He has no idea who he really is.

Your heart hammers for an entirely different reason now. What Ocelot had gone over with you day in and day out, practiced with you, warned you of its repercussions. You hadn’t been a part of the plan until Big Boss had brought it up, much to your embarrassment, and much to Ocelot’s disgruntled dismay.

Bringing you in had complicated an already complex angle. You’re led to believe that your role isn’t anything significant, but down to the brass tacks, it _is_.

You notice your fingers threaded with his and don’t seem to recall when you’d reach for it, feeling that familiarity lying dormant there. A selfish speculation crosses your mind--you wonder if he’s already thought of you, reflected if you’d even still see him the same way. Worried if you’d changed your mind and moved on to someone else.

(What a _cunning_ thought.)

The touch of soft fabric blankets your shoulders, glancing upwards to meet Ocelot’s gaze.

He looks different. Studious, pondering as he hands off another spare blanket for you to do the honors. He’s even more patient as he watches you carefully drape the Boss’s body with it, drinking in every detail like the perfected neat freak that he is. Quieter than usual, so that must mean he’s up to no good.

“You must care about him. More than any soldier really should.”

Your softened expression turns sour, like you’d picked up on some foul odor.

He wants to talk about this _now_ of all places?

In front of _him?_

He’s testing you, pushing your buttons, seeing if what Big Boss vouched for in you is true at all. Long before Revolver Ocelot had come into the picture, back in that summer-soaked command platform deck, it was Intel calling _you_ their commander instead of him.

“You weren’t there when it happened,” you bite out, and the warning tone is all but edged on your words. Like poison. Like _venom_. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Sure I would, if you ever cared to elaborate.”

“Talk to anyone else at Mother Base. I wasn’t the only survivor. I’m also not the only one who knows the Boss personally.”

“Yet you’re one of the rare, exceptional few to know the Boss on a _first name basis_.”

Your heart leaps.

(Cat’s got your tongue. You already know you’re going to _hate_ working with him.)

You bitterly wonder who’s really the dead weight in this situation. There’s only so much that Ocelot alone can do, and yet it’s him that’s constructed this whole fiasco and dragged you along with it. If you want any semblance of normalcy back, it’s going to have to come tapering off from him. Even if it means lying to the men you’ve served alongside time and time again. Commander Miller. Even this new brand of Snake himself.

...God, _Miller_. 

The man is rotting in an Afghan prison all in the name of buying you both enough time, and he doesn’t even realize the truth.

The chip on Ocelot’s shoulder towards you seems like a minimized issue in scope of the situation. You’ll learn to ignore him. Stick to the plan. In some sense, he shares more history with Big Boss than you ever could in a lifetime--and if there’s a time to be envious you haven’t decided on one. He’d _chosen_ you. It’s not your fault you’d admired him then, carried a fondness throughout your MSF career that even piqued his own interest.

A curious thought crosses you.

“Hey.”

Your fingers leave the Boss’s grasp, glancing over your shoulder to meet silver hair and blue eyes.

“You don’t look like an Adamska, either.”

For once, his expression falters.

* * *

Seven days to Port Qasim in Karachi, Sindh. Three overland on transport then horseback. There won’t be much room for margin of error to rescue Miller, so that’s why you suppose _you’re_ in charge of making sure everything’s smooth-sailing on deck while Ocelot’s on “let the legend come back to life” duty. Provisions are continuously checked up on and you’d just issued a restock on food, water, and cover-up amenities at the Suez Canal. 

Not enough to garner the attention of local authorities or security measures, but one too many Diamond Dogs on foot carries bad news. The men Ocelot had handpicked you’d trained yourself, though you don’t let any sense of pride wash over you that it’s him that they have to take their orders from now.

It’s already been a solid three days since you’d left harbor at Cyprus and already it doesn’t feel like enough time for everything that needs to happen, to happen at least _right_. After your own bout of teasing towards Ocelot, the man seems hyper fixated on ignoring you as much as possible on a ship where you’re doomed to cross paths at least once or twice in the same hour.

His loss.

At the very least, if the Boss had asked of your whereabouts, Ocelot’s been keen on keeping you at arm’s length as much as possible. If anything to serve as some reward for reaching his tentative timetable, dangling your presence around on a fishing hook in a bout of _maybe you’re here_ or _maybe you’re not_.

You finally meet him, conscious and all, on day four of sailing.

And a lot has changed about him.

That coarse, lengthy beard of his is trimmed and in neat order, that hook he had for an arm now replaced with a bionic prosthetic. Standard issued olive drab Diamond Dogs uniform, his hair tied back and that eyepatch you’ve come to be so familiar with returning. Frankly, you don’t question whether it was physically possible a man could put on muscle mass and weight so quickly in such a short amount of time. 

Even now, much to your disapproval, you had to give Ocelot some credit--what you imagined an impossible feat is proof before your very eyes. That’s why he’d been chewing your ear out about supplements earlier--if you’d known he’d been trying to beef up the Boss, you’d at least request to be around to _supervise_ it.

To your displeasure, Ocelot’s running over the debriefings with the Boss-- _Snake_ , it feels good to say, but you had hoped to catch him alone. Not like Ocelot plans on leaving him to his own devices anytime soon--you’re crunching on brittle time as is, and while you’re elated that Snake’s back, there are just as many pressing matters to attend to that needs _his_ attention.

The door hadn’t squeaked when you entered, but does when you shut it behind you, garnering the attention of both men seated at the table in the center of the room.

The look on his face--Snake’s face, is enough for you to lose your breath.

Your palms suddenly feel clammier than usual, your throat tightening, and a part of you, that whisper at the back of your head knows the telltale signs when you see his eye widen just a fraction. _He’s missed you._

You try not to show any hiccups to stop your pace as you approach them, Walkman and iDroid in hand. For once, Ocelot has the decency to behave civilly with you in the picture, continuing on with the last known positions your scouts had seen Miller. 

So far there’s murmurs between Da Wialo Kallai, Da Ghwandai Kar, and the Wakh Sind Barracks, all areas that require more intel (with what little equipment you’ve been provided, anyways) but the rest need a solid solo infiltration to produce any results.

And that’s his job.

Even as Ocelot speaks to try and smooth out the tension, Snake hasn’t taken his gaze from you. It feels strange that you don’t exchange words right away, setting down the equipment onto the table as you’re now put between him and Ocelot.

“How’s our ETA lookin’?” comes Ocelot’s voice, and you have a hard time keeping your eyes steady. Be calm. You _trained_ for this. Gloved palms relaxed, at your sides, relieve the tension in your back so you’re not standing as stiff as a board.

“We’re on track,” you inform, breathing out an inward sigh of relief that your voice doesn’t shake. Confident. Cool. “We should reach Port Qasim in four days, maybe less if that stormfront doesn’t approach. Not so much for the guys working on intel, though. We’re stretched thin on the line as is.”

Ocelot’s arms are folded across his chest, biting the pad of his gloved thumb. “And we’ve got no one else to spare?”

“Cannibal Mustang checked in an hour ago. Waiting on Killer Octopus to send in her report. If you want anyone else from Intel we won’t have anybody _left_ on Mother Base.”

“ _Ocelot._ ”

That deep, gravelly tone quiets you both into respectable silence. The Boss’s gaze is focused on the man he’s called out, for once looking disgruntled that he’s still standing here. A rush of relief, anxiety, and nervousness suddenly swarms you, turning your limbs rigid when Snake gives the Intel commander a knowing look.

You want to wipe that smug look off of Ocelot’s face when he brushes off his hands and heads towards the door.

“Alright. I’ll leave you two alone.”

Neither of you say anything on the implications of that until his footsteps fade, the door opens then shuts, and his boots recede down the hall and further.

The _truth_ is that you haven’t been alone for nine years. But the truth to him, the truth he’s fed to know and led to believe is that you’ve been trying to keep what’s left of the Seychelles Mother Base intact with what little resources you have and a commander gone POW to boot. You wonder if you speak his name he’ll react to it at all, and somewhere the voice of Ocelot goads you in amusement: _first name basis_.

You push the Walkman, the tapes, the iDroid, the bullet shells further onto the center of the table and seat yourself at the edge of it. “Jack. How are you feeling?”

He told you once, after telling you his name, that The Boss had always fondly called him that. And seeing him now, taking in a quick inhale after hearing you address him as such, you know you’re on the right track.

Something crossed between a scoff and a mild laugh comes forth, rumbling deep in his chest. “I’ve seen better days. So have you.”

Your fingers unfurl, waggling quickly before him as you nod to his bionic prosthetic. With little hesitation he lifts his arm and his wrist is held in your grasp, almost unsure if he should move and flex his fingers there or not. Afraid, almost, that he’ll clip your gloved fingers, scare you away despite what you know.

The thought is enough to make you smile, your hand reaching to unclasp the wristwatch on your arm with ease. The nylon straps slip smoothly, almost comically around his prosthetic wrist and remains snug and secured there as you pull away to let him admire it. 

The joint that connects his wrist and arm rotate slightly, and another quiet rumble of his chest indicates that he’s pleased. It belongs to you, after all. With him gone all this time, it’s rather befitting yet ironic that it’s _you_ handing him back the time that he’s lost.

Your hand reaches forward, slowly at first as if not to frighten him. He doesn’t move, just watches you with wonder as you sit slightly taller than him now, and blink softly when your palm touches his face. The scars are not soft, not pleasant under your fingertips, and yet his one good eye closes, fluttering under the gentleness of your warmth cradling his jaw. 

The skin has been torn apart, revitalized, has lived to take in another breath all while a horn of shrapnel reminds him of the trauma he has survived with. A long time past, his beard rough against your fingertips.

“Kept me waiting,” you admonish him softly. Enough of an answer for him for all his silent questioning. The ship rocks slightly against the waves crashing against portside, the incandescent golden glow of the ceiling bulb your only light in this room. He sits at the table, cradling his new prosthetic arm that you knew of days not at his side.

Tense fingers grasp around your wrist when you go to pull away from him, the fingers of his prosthetic, testing your reaction as his dazed eye meets yours. The turn of his head and a soft, sweet kiss is brushed against your palm, an affection you do not remember him giving you since your last spoken words.

He should have taken you with him, but you fell in love in that split moment of cigar smoke, its drag through your burning lungs as he breathed his fire, and in one moment he was the man who sold the world.

Not for you, though; never for you.

“Not anymore,” is his soft reply. Gruff, coarse, yet promising of his words; his voice warms your veins and you close your eyes. When they open his eye is focused downwards, down your arms and your fingers, your body, and its wandering warms a part of yourself you have never felt in such dog days. He brings a part of the man you remember to warmer depths even if his face is now scarred, and you give in to what he longs for.

Your thumb brushes against his bottom lip, parted slightly as you split them apart, and he draws his eye back upon your face where you are perched atop the surface of the table. There is no hesitance on his end, no deja vu or jamais vu, only longing as you kiss him softly and slowly. He tastes nothing of cigars, nothing of sweet stars of Bethlehem nor even venom.

It is your part to make it so, just as is Ocelot’s.

He is not the man you loved, not the man you had laid in bed with during the nights of the Peace Walker Incident, but he is now, even when you pull back and the longing lingers still. The scars are still not soft, not pleasant, but all would be none the wiser.

Doublethink, Ocelot had told you. Only to add on to the phantom pain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And he buys into it. He takes it, accepts it for what it is at face-value because it carries _merit_ and it resembles the truth, or at least the rumor that mirrors it.

Despite Miller’s protests towards D.D. and Ocelot’s newly adopted hyperfixation on annoying the Mother Base commander, you, for once, have come to painful agreement with your new Intel replacement. D.D.’s presence on the base uplifted morale like you’ve never seen, though that reason alone isn’t part of Ocelot’s plan. Even the Diamond Dog mascot has his own duty to attend to when those fangs come armed and ready.

You, on the other hand, are negated from such responsibilities. At least for the time being Ocelot can disentangle himself from your hair with his new training duties towards D.D. and leave you to some semblance of command back on the Intel deck. At least what is _supposed_ to be it--now with the Boss back, Base Development finally has a worthwhile job to do in constructing more struts and platforms to maximize base facilities and needs.

You’re not surprised to see spirits more uplifted than usual nowadays, with what Commander Miller back and rescued by the hands of Snake no less. You’d say things are looking up and may continue to do so, but there are more loose ends than you care to admit still exist, and a _truth_ you’ve yet to continue pressing as one.

For now, though, at least you can live a little in some bit of normalcy, crouching down with files and cassettes in hand when D.D.’s lively form comes pouncing onto your dusty boots.

Even his missing eye adds a sense of charm to him, nibbling with pearly teeth at your fingertips as you run them through his wild fur and soft belly. Paw pads try to find solid grip against your wrist, kicking and squirming against the Intel deck marked with the glossy Diamond Dogs logo.

It brings a soft laugh from you until Ocelot’s voice comes nosing in behind your back.

“D.D!” he calls out sternly, hands on his hips against that sun-soaked sky. You tried to tell him once that his sunglasses looked stupid, but the man himself ended up taking it as a _compliment_. “Trying to coddle my latest recruit, commander?”

You try not to roll your eyes. _Semblance of normalcy. He’s being civil. At least try to be the same way before someone picks up on it._ “Coddling’s one of my many areas of expertise. No wonder the poor guy ditched training with you to come and get free pets from me.”

Maybe in another life you could’ve been friends. 

Maybe.

It does garner a reaction out of him though--a quiet chuckle as you bring your files in one arm and tuck D.D. as you stand in the other. He’s such a small little thing that it’s hard to imagine yourself holding anything else, any other life aside from this one. D.D. squirms tirelessly in your arms for a moment, your gloved palm cradling him by his furry chest to your side. Hopefully Snake won’t mind the additional bed mate tonight if you’re able to sneak under Ocelot’s careful watch of his new protege.

A nice thought to entertain for later, but baby steps all the same. Your networks and connections from the Caribbean Mother Base was an impressive feat, and you’re doing what you can to rebuild from scratch since most of your equipment went sinking down into the sea. 

Even if it means coming from the help of someone like Ocelot.

Red gloved fingers stretch to push those tasteless sunglasses against silver-blonde hair before fondly reaching down to ruffle between D.D.’s ears. The action seamlessly looks harmless and puts him that much closer to you--a minimized range that, on any other day, you would have taken a step back or two. 

To any onlooking observer, it would appear more or less a casual, friendly chat between the chain of command. Like two soldiers, two friends, on lunch break between hard work.

Those blue eyes glance downwards at D.D.’s panting, smiling face, yet his voice is low and directed at you.

“Speaking of _coddling_ as your area of expertise...”

Is _everything_ about this guy literally a game of cat and mouse? You could be chatting about the conservation of endangered animal species one second, then have him drive a knife into your gut the next. It’s not like he’s asking for consistent updates all around, and aside from how deep your connections go you’re both otherwise as civilized as can be around one another.

You’d rather not have a chat about it with Snake, or even Miller of all people on Mother Base. The last people who need to be concerned are the ones who have to be the furthest away from this issue.

D.D. steers his head to and fro, trying to get Ocelot’s fingers on a good patch to scratch at.

“He’s doing well,” you start, keeping your voice just as even and matched with his. “Jogged his memory. Started asking questions about the old Mother Base. I’m almost afraid about how much detail he’s told you.”

The corner of his lips upturn. He teases out the word like a cat playing with a feathery toy. “About what? Your _personal life?_ ”

A sigh. “He remembers everything. About me and him. Even what he said to me when… yeah.” You don’t want to compliment him. Does something like this really even deserve it? 

You clear your throat, thankful for D.D. as a distraction. “You’re, uh. Pretty good.”

Not meeting his eyes, reddened cheeks, awfully distracted now. _You’re embarrassed for more reasons than one._

Despite the raised brows of Ocelot, he exhales a scoff--not in displeasure but disbelief. He glances off towards that blue horizon, where sky and sea meet and seem conjoined as one.

“What?” you ask, D.D. whining against your side.

“He told me the same thing once. A long time ago.”

And you smile a little yourself, setting D.D. back down to prance as freely as he pleases. “I know.”

* * *

As much as you enjoy having Mother Base and her platforms back, there is one particular thing you don’t quite miss, and it’s Miller’s just as disgruntled reminder that comes knocking. _Windows are a structural weakness. Sorry, Moose._

So is heatstroke. So is low morale drop due to insufficient heating and cooling amenities. You can’t believe some of the complaints you’ve gotten over soldiers out on afternoon security duty. Still, most keep it to themselves when the Boss comes around much to command’s relief. 

Even with your unzipped uniform and rolled-up sleeves you can’t seem to catch any cool drafts in this summer heat in your room. Boots unlaced, you sift through another stack of recruits you’re interested in taking on for the intel team, pacing aimlessly as another song starts up on the Walkman hanging on your hip.

Halfway through _Take On Me_ you don’t hear Snake step through the door so much as you finally _see_ him, comically ripping your headphones free from your ears like you’d been caught napping on the job. Relationship or not, being with someone on the _Boss’s_ level is a hard practice to break--in front of the others you’re still obligated to salute, use proper ranks, and act in a professional manner.

Given _nine_ years, you’ll be forgiven that some old habits die hard.

You’re stuck in this awkward limbo of half-wanting to salute, half-realizing that you’re in the privacy of your own room to disregard those formalities altogether. If you thought that being on the _Heiwa Maru_ forced you and Ocelot any closer, then imagine your surprise to find his desk touching the opposite end of yours back at base. You’d called him a lot of names, then, sure, but his words still have their intended effect. 

First name basis. You wonder if there’s an off-button somewhere that could shut him up for a few hours. Or forever.

“Jack,” you finally have enough breath to say. You let the headphones hang around your neck instead, turning the knob of the volume down then pressing the stop button. “Back from that mission already?”

He shuts the door behind him and begins to set down his own equipment, yanking off his dusty scarf and letting it pool at the foot of the bed. “What, _missed_ me already?”

_He acts like him. Talks like him._

You snort, placing your files down on the nightstand to clamor onto the bed. As he’s busy leaning down to unlace his boots, you’re busy snaking your arms around his waist from behind. “You do realize who was gathering all the know-how for you to make sure things run smoothly, right?”

He doesn’t tense but _relaxes_ at your touch, like it’s been the only thing he’s been looking forward to all day. Even so, his voice is gruff, toying, as he ponders, “Must be someone important. I should promote them--it was good intel.”

 _That_ seems to get a sigh out of you, your arms pulling back as you flop deeper into the mattress and blankets and pillows, watching the ceiling fan spin endlessly.

And he picks up on it in the blink of an eye, glancing at you over his shoulder as he gets one boot loose. “What’s been going on, Moose?”

You squeeze your eyes shut and seem to forget that people here will _still_ call you that. Despite the codenames, you never really found _yours_ to be as respectable as _Raging Raven_ or _Laughing Octopus_. 

It wasn’t really much of a choice more than a nickname that gained traction during _one_ particular story you just had to share during a monthly birthday party back in the Caribbean. Someone had mentioned seeing _moose_ this far down south and you’d been hell bent at the time in proving them wrong because you’d _know a moose apart from a deer, trust me, those antlers can crush a man’s ribs like a bag of bricks._

On a CQC training session later you _had_ crushed a rookie’s ribs like mentioned above, and much to your dismay the name had stuck ever since.

“Nothing important that needs your immediate attention,” you reassure him. “Trust me.”

When you open your eyes Snake appears amused, though it’s short-lived when he turns back to untie his other boot. He’s quiet for a beat until he presses on. “So those rumors I’ve been hearing about you and Ocelot… that doesn’t require my immediate attention either?”

You can physically _feel_ your heart drop through your gut.

And carefully, after your own beat, you choose your words. “...Where did you hear that?”

In your line of work rumors aren’t to be taken lightly. Despite them being superfluous in nature, there’s always some point of truth in them. And you know the Boss knows it too. He’d been _trained_ for this sort of thing after all, long before you even came into the picture. While he was playing espionage in Dremuchij and Tselinoyarsk in 1964, you were sitting behind a desk at charm school learning the basic arts.

“The men,” is the obvious answer. _Of course they gossip. Down to it, news travels fast on the base._ “Some are saying you and Ocelot are butting heads, aren’t always in agreement. I know it’s tough to see eye-to-eye with him at times, you both have different opinions on the job… but if this starts affecting morale, our men _outside_...”

You bend an elbow and rest your forearm across your temple, knowing where his words are leading you to, and all that pent-up frustration about Ocelot suddenly envelops into guilt. You hadn’t taken into account of what your little spat could be doing to people around you. Another part of you is peeved because _had it really been that damned obvious?_ You thought you two were making it look at least believable--for God’s sake, Ocelot and _Miller_ are the epitome of _never seeing eye-to-eye_.

Or is this just another small detail blowing up from this rumor gone wild?

You sigh and shut your eyes again, realizing your error all along. To save face from the truth you can at least safely lean back on the other one, the one that most around Mother Base are probably exchanging opinions on still. “I’m sorry. It’s not really _us_ seeing eye-to-eye, not personally. It’s more…”

You rub a fist into your eye in irritation, taking note of Snake listening quietly, patiently to you ramble.

“He came out of nowhere. I didn’t mind it so much until I end up getting late-notice that I’m being reassigned to the _Intel command replacement_ along with all the men I was commanding myself,” you admit quietly. “It feels strange. _We_ trained those men, Jack. Some of them we’ve known since MSF. I’ve already lost them, _you_ once, you understand?”

And he buys into it. He takes it, accepts it for what it is at face-value because it carries _merit_ and it resembles the truth, or at least the rumor that mirrors it.

He turns his body enough so he can reach over, splaying those prosthetic fingers across your furthest hip.

Your heart beats madly, and inside, for a split moment, it feels like him. Like Big Boss. Like those days back in the Caribbean, but there’s something different about this Snake that you can’t quite put your finger on. After the fall of MSF, those days spent quietly chatting at his side in Dhekelia, he’d still been the Big Boss you know. 

But physically, with the way he touches you, there’s a part of him that you’d constructed ever since. Like the way he looks at you. That carefulness in his touch. The controlled tone of his voice. The way his expression softens whenever he sees you. Ever since the fall of Mother Base, you’d been living off of phantoms and fantasy.

This venomous snake, this phantom before you, embodies what Big Boss had lost.

Selfish or not, if it convinces you to believe that he’s the real Big Boss, you’ll take whatever blessings you can get.

“I’ll work on keeping our opinions to ourselves,” you promise him, voice quiet. He notices your hand reaching over, squeezing his thigh comfortingly as you smile a bit. “Morale won’t drop because of us. And if it does? Well… I’ll try to be first in line for the flogging so it’ll make Ocelot look good instead.”

He scoffs, letting your hands roam upwards, grasping the sides of his neck and playing with the stray hairs against your fingertips. Just as he’s about to lean down, though, a lump in the blankets near your legs finally twitches and comes to life, sighing out your defeat.

D.D. comes wrestling through the fabric with a howl, finally roused from his slumber and catching on his favorite Diamond Dog’s scent.

You shoot a sheepish grin up at Snake, admiring how D.D. nips and bites ferociously at his papa wolf’s glove to get his attention. “So much for Ocelot’s discipline training, huh?”

He grunts in reply, scooting you both over onto the bed as D.D. nestles himself safely between you both. “Let me guess: another thing you and Ocelot didn’t see _eye-to-eye_ on? I thought you were making plans for improvement.”

You give a careless shrug, supporting your head with a palm on your side.

“Never said I was making them _now_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely will be seeing some Kaz next chapter.
> 
> And as always, thank you so much for the lovely kudos. ❤❤❤


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had this situation been any different you’d gladly, without question or hesitance, put your life in front of Kaz if only it would save him. Any true Diamond Dog would in a heartbeat.
> 
> In this situation, though, you can only pretend to.

There’s a safe spot tucked away on the top level of the command platform for particular nights where you’d rather avoid contact with the others. Given that it was nearly impossible to never run into the same faces in the same day, this little corner and niche you’ve self-proclaimed for yourself serves as a good spot for you to meddle in peace.

No Ocelot versus Miller. No crying about getting sunburned on an afternoon shift. No screaming about the sniper in the solo brig. No ass kissing from Huey. Not even D.D. scratching at your door and whimpering in the early mornings.

Your very own little world, with just the ambiance of Mother Base and the crashing waves down below.

It’s not a comfortable seat but you make do, back pressed against the bright orange paint of Mother Base’s walls. From here you can see the silhouettes of connecting bridges to other platforms, gazing far enough to make out the soon-to-be combat deck and already bustling, brightly lit support one.

Given your rank, being sent out on solo infiltration hadn’t really been ideal. If you train the soldiers to not be spotted out by Big Boss himself out in the field, then you’re a glittering, shining target just waiting to get hit. Once upon a time, though. You’d almost forgotten how _nice_ it is to get away from everyone, with just your own thoughts and not _can you take D.D. to the bathroom?_ or _do it your damned self, Ocelot, Moose is busy_.

“It’s nice up here, huh?”

So much for wanting to be alone tonight.

But you recognize that voice, those footsteps before you even have to see him, hurriedly going to stand upright when he finally reaches the last step. “Commander Miller? Sir?”

He’s a little breathless and winded, given you’re all the way up near the damned helipad, though seems entirely interested in what _you’ve_ been up to more so than requiring your services.

His hair is disheveled and unkempt even beneath his beret, but he nods all the same towards the spot you were just sitting. “Want some company?”

Well, he _did_ make the long trek up the staircase--it’d be rude to send him back down now. “Of course, sir. Let me help.”

You’ve seen the careful way Snake handles him, how Miller never misses a beat and allows him to wrap his arm around his back to bring him safely to ground from the chopper. Even now you take notice of it, how Miller hands you his cane first and prepares his arm to wrap around your shoulders, pulling you into his side to guide him to sit where you had been previously.

When he’s comfortable you place the cane down near his good arm, then seat yourself on his other side.

He observes his surroundings for a second, lips parted. “It’s quiet up here. Different.”

“Between you and me, sir, it’s a good spot to take a breather.”

“Just Kaz,” he says after a long breath, a long pause. “Just... call me Kaz.”

It’s not just any kind of throwaway name you’d say to him just because. There’s weight attached to it that you’re more than aware of because there’s really only one other person who has ever earned the right to even _address_ him as such. Calling him _Kaz_ alone brings a sense of acute intimacy, something private that you figured only rightly belonged between him and Snake. 

To everyone else it had always been “commander” or “Miller” or a combination of both given the circumstances. Not to say you ever had a negative relationship with the once infamously womanizing Kazuhira Miller--it just always felt like you weren’t part of that singular bond, something you couldn’t share or understand. Maybe Miller had always felt the same way--he hand picked you for the intel team himself, after all, and then to have Big Boss himself pay particular attention to _you_...

“...First name basis?” you cautiously echo, glancing warily at the--nowadays--taciturn Mother Base commander.

“Huh. Yeah, well if you’ve _always_ been known as Moose…”

You look even more fatigued than usual hearing that again. “You do something more than enough and it kind of _sticks_ a certain way, don’t you think?”

A chuff of breath escapes him, tapers off into this little chuckle. “Something like that.”

Calling him Kaz would only mean he’s slowly been able to trust again, _enough_ , and put that trust into _you_ despite the floor shrinking beneath his feet. Even you could admit that the Miller you once knew hardly resembles the man he is now, hardened by loss--in limbs, men, time that he can never fight to get back. Driven by this almost manic thirst for revenge on Cipher, on Skull Face for what happened all those years ago.

“How long has it been?” You feel smaller, quiet. Maybe even safe beside Kaz despite him being your utmost priority. You may serve yourself more than just a Diamond Dog but you still have a job to do, a chain of command to respect. “How long since we’ve known each other, Kaz?”

“You’ve been there since the beginning, since _before_ we made that deal with Zadornov, Moose. You know that.”

“Sometimes it’s good to be reminded.”

“Or maybe good to remind _me_ , huh?”

You both share another laugh, tasting that distinct salty wind weave through the railings. From the reports you’ve seen, Kaz has been anything but his former self--quick to anger, disgruntled, moodier than usual and with good reason. But to see him hobble his way out of his schedule to find you of all people more than readily has your utmost attention and seems to diminish the reports. He seems at ease in this moment, relaxed now that he doesn’t have to oversee a juggle between base development and support.

Despite all that’s happened, Kaz is still well-liked among the men, temper or not. Had this situation been any different you’d gladly, without question or hesitance, put your life in front of his if only it would save him. Any true Diamond Dog would in a heartbeat.

In this situation, though, you can only pretend to.

“Hey,” he says softly against the breeze. “Tell me something, Moose. And be honest. Soldier to soldier, you and me.”

“Yeah?”

“Has Ocelot been giving you trouble or are you just downplaying it?”

Now _that_ is so like this Miller to be.

You scowl in turn, soured by the mere mention of _that_ new hyperfixation. “Why is everyone so _concerned_ about me and Ocelot? Is there something _I’m_ missing here? Should I be expecting a surprise marriage proposal because he’s actually _liked_ me all this time--or, or some argument to break out between the Boss and him because of me?”

Better they be infatuated with this supposed _truth_ than the other, so long as it serves to keep their attention on it. Reasonably you’re annoyed with just how much and _who_ is attracted to you and Ocelot’s overblown infighting and may even--shockingly--bring it _up_ with the Intel commander. You’ll seek him out later, maybe, if he still plans on forgiving you for coddling his wolf-like protege.

Still, the scoff Kaz lets out is plagued with some bittersweet edge. “That’d be the day.”

“Kaz?”

 _First name basis_. Because he trusts you and he doesn’t allow it to hinder his words. “I don’t trust Ocelot.”

Well, that’s certainly an understatement.

“I just want your opinion, Moose, on him. As a team on the job everything’s concrete, the information you both collect is solid. I’m not saying I believe the rumors but we both know who he’s working for.”

You’re treading on some precariously thin, _thin_ ice right now while simultaneously dodging bullets bigger than the last.

“Off the record and off the job, though,” Kaz continues, “I feel like you don’t trust him, either. Or has this just been an episode of me being wrong and Ocelot always being right?”

Frankly, the last person you expect for Kaz to come admitting this all to is _you_ instead of the Boss. In hindsight you suppose it does make rational sense--Snake doesn’t particularly voice any differential opinions when Kaz and Ocelot argue over what to do on the comms channel. 

When one man pushes for one way the other pulls the opposite, and lately it’s been Ocelot’s goading--first bringing in D.D. then that new sniper-convict aboard in her own personal holding cell. Not to mention his differing thoughts on Huey’s presence on Mother Base.

Of course Kaz’s patience would be fraying thin--his command has competition, undermines his authority against Ocelot’s not much unlike your situation. You’re squatting up here because _Ocelot_ replaced you of all people, and with the Boss in agreement with Ocelot’s suggestions on the job, you’re not surprised to hear any gossip about who’s really running the base at this point.

A conversation that almost feels lifetimes ago back in Dhekelia whispers warnings. 

_Loyalty to your country, or loyalty to me? Your country, or your old mentor? The mission, or your beliefs? Your duty to your unit, or your personal feelings?_

And then there’s a reminding Ocelot at your other ear himself: _in this year, it’s doublethink. Two plus two equals five_.

“I have to,” you finally admit, resting a bent elbow against your knee. “Even if I don’t like to. He’s good at what he does, I can admit that much. Doesn’t mean I have to like him.”

He seems even slightly appeased by your remark that you share the same dismal thoughts on Ocelot, reassuring him, “Look, Kaz, down to it _you’re_ our commander. You held us together even after we lost the Boss, kept us going when most of us had something to lose. You took a gamble on someone like _Ocelot_ if it meant getting Snake back. If you’re worried about being undermined, don’t--we know who went out of his way, for all of us.”

He doesn’t say anything immediately which worries you for a split second, heart beating wildly that you might’ve read the signals wrong.

His lips purse, still wearing those damned shades he can’t seem to get rid of. You like them better than Ocelot’s at least. “You put too much faith in me.”

“You fishing for compliments?”

And the laugh he barks out surprises you--not because of how loud it is, but because of how genuine it sounds. “From you, sure. Keep ‘em coming.”

“Hey,” you keep your tone even, just leveled barely above the whistling wind. “If you’re concerned about Ocelot I can keep an eye out. Ever since the Caribbean some of the old crew have been on edge. If morale’s what you’re worried about I’ve been keeping people reassured but if they see _you_ freaking out of all people…”

“True,” Kaz bitterly muses. “But right now you’re the only eyes I’ve got behind the situation. The only person really in his ballpark.”

He’s talking about your time in charm school, how young you had been in entrance and even sooner down into deployment. Nearly a decade ago you had picked up on Paz’s rather eccentric behavior and brought it to Miller’s attention, who at the time hadn’t really taken your observation into much consideration.

Now, though, you’re sure he’s taking that mistake to heart.

Teeth worry frustration into his bottom lip, and despite how rugged he looks now, you can’t help but recognize how _attractive_ Kaz had always been. “I made a mistake all those years ago. I should’ve listened to you, you brought the problem to me _right_ there… and none of us even batted an eye.”

“It’s done with, Kaz.”

“How can you just say that? After all of this, it could’ve been avoided if I’d just let you investigate it.”

“ _Kaz_ ,” you firmly state. “Like I could even see past that UN inspection team. Emmerich, even.”

It’s still a fresh wound if his face twisting is any indication of his discomfort. But he’s still hell bent on proving that he’s been on your side all along, that despite him ignoring your advice he still wants to prove that you’re not stumbling around in the dark because of him.

And God forbid, that’s exactly what Ocelot would want him to feel. _Regret_.

This sickly motion of pride swells in your gut that Commander Miller of all people should be apologizing to you.

“...You’re made of tough stuff, Moose, and we’ve put you through enough hell as is. You could’ve made a break for it after what happened in the Caribbean, but you came back.”

You snort. “What can I say? I wasn’t gonna die happy until I got an apology out of you.”

“Happy, huh? I can live with that. Until I find a more suitable apology, for now... I’m sorry.”

From then on there’s an undecided peace you live with, even if it’s momentarily. Watching cranes swing slowly back and forth to build back the home you’ve all longed for. Some time ago you’d pondered that the struts alone couldn’t withstand tactically placed C4. You’ve learned not to dwell too much on the logistics of things, however short-lived that could be.

Time seems to pass in droves and waves, your eyes growing heavy until you feel a grizzly jaw press against your shoulder.

“Kaz?” you whisper warily.

Those lips of his are slightly parted, but you’re more interested in how his sunglasses are slipping down his nose, blonde eyelashes flush against his cheeks. Measured, quiet breaths. The soft warmth of it skating down your summer uniform and the exposed flesh of your bicep, the weight of his body leaning against you.

Distinctly, you realize in your sleep-addled mind that it’s the side with his missing arm.

Something tells you to move him, to jostle him before he ends up waking with sores, but your head turns and your judgement of distance is poorer than usual. When he’d come back that day his beard had grown thick, so much more different than the usual smooth, sun-kissed skin you’re so accustomed to seeing. 

That sharp cleanliness hits you about the reminder, and your breath catches at just how _close_ he really is when you smell that cool, lingering scent. 

_He’s been shaving again._

And you let him be.

* * *

The past few days included exchanging unmarked tapes with Ocelot, keeping him informed about your progress but keeping Miller’s name out of it. Whatever spat is going on between them you’re not even remotely interested in, if only it’ll keep the Mother Base commander at ease at his behest. 

Out of those tapes you’ve included and recorded your own thoughts about the rumors surrounding you and Ocelot. You brought attention to the Intel commander if you should dispel the supposed gossip because it disrupts morale among the men, or if you should allow it to continue because it keeps Miller and Snake occupied as a passive issue.

Regardless if you never quite see eye-to-eye, Ocelot’s compliant and reasonable when need be. Dispelling them momentarily should keep the men’s voices down, at least for the time being.

You’re in the middle of sorting iDroid files behind your desk when you catch a spur rattling from the doorway.

You don’t even bat an eye. “Commander Asshole.”

The other intel recruits occupied at the computer terminals are _awful_ at hiding their snickers.

“...Hey?” 

He actually sounds _genuinely_ confused, steaming Diamond Dogs mug in hand. Shaking his head momentarily from that stun, his echoing footsteps finally come round to sit behind his desk directly across from yours, gauging you warily.

When he had informed you in the latest tape to momentarily dispel the _Ocelot versus Moose_ rumors with a final punch, he didn’t expect you to slap a sticky note over the “Ocelot” on his name plaque with “Asshole” instead. He asked for it, didn’t he? He _wanted_ this to happen so it’ll take some heat off of what you two were intentionally doing--you’re just administrating the final shove so he can finally bury the hatchet once and for all.

“That’s cute,” he remarks almost fondly.

Soldiers or not, gossip is an ancient art. You recall him in the tape mentioning to at least _modify_ the rumor--you’re not really at each other’s throats, more like it finally dispels into this begrudgingly respectable rivalry. Keep them entertained. If they want heat, they’ll fish for the _Miller versus Ocelot_ ones.

Better people believe you two are reaching admirable consensus than suffer overall morale drop.

You glance at him for a second, the dull blue glow of the iDroid illuminating your face. “Glad you like it.”

“You could make me one for every day of the week, but…”

Now it’s your turn to be puzzled. “...But what?”

The corner of his lip curls into a smirk, setting his coffee down on the desk beside his neat stack of files. “Say, Moose, you’ve got counseling experience, right?”

You don’t like where this is going. This is _completely_ derailing from keeping things friendly.

“A bit, yeah?” you admit, careful in your tone.

“You know that last mission we were gathering FOM and sightings of child soldiers together? The White Mamba? Good news. Snake’s just captured him and his little army.”

Faulty intel is _not_ your forte. “And? What is it, Ocelot?”

He carefully peels the note from his sterling _Commander Ocelot_ plaque to yours, covering your beloved _Moose_.

“Consider this a vacation from the intel team, commander. You’re being reassigned to educational and counseling duties.”


	4. Chapter 4

This is the furthest thing you would call burying the _fucking_ hatchet.

You can see the intel deck all the way from across this stretch of water and isolated platforms, and for the past few hours you’ve been shooting sniper eyes there, and hopefully at Ocelot’s head. Arms crossed, a deep set frown on your lips, closed off body language--everything about you _screams_ bad mood and even the children can feel it.

What kind of stunt is this? You’re supposed to be partners even on the physical surface of things but to cut you off completely--you don’t see how this even begins to help out the situation. If he wanted _good terms_ then you call bullshit on the spot. He didn’t want good terms. He wanted his _own_. And he took control of the situation without your consent.

How the hell does he expect you to complete your _other_ mission if you’re further away from Snake?

Your fingers flex in and out, digging harshly into the fabric of your gloved palms for the umpteenth time in the same hour. That stupid cowboy’s had his fun. He can dismantle and deface your reputation, fine. But _barring_ you from doing your _job_ \--

“Moose?”

You snap out of your ravenous thought process and glance downwards, training your face back into cool surprise.

You smile a little, finding shy yet cautious eyes catching yours beneath a weathered yellow cap. “ _Mbote_.” 

( _Hey_.)

Despite your little brusque entrance a few kids still have gone out of their way to see you, more or less out of curiosity. None of them speak enough English for conversation, but you’d be open to take on any willing students. Whoever’s responsible for _reassigning_ you is someone up in the chain of command, and the few who had access are either you, Intel, Miller, Ocelot, or the Boss himself. 

There are plenty of Diamond Dogs who speak Kikongo--language fluency is written on everyone’s records, but you’re one of the few reassigned who meets the criteria for maintaining the children with both educational and counseling experience _and_ the Kikongo language.

He utters his own little _mbote_ back, though soon afterwards stutters out a little, “H-Hey.”

Your smile widens, reaching forward to steer him gently by his shoulder first to turn, then guiding him with your palm pressed between his shoulder blades. “ _Kiese ya kuzabana na nge,_ ” you introduce, slowing your pace so he can match your longer stride. “ _Ebwe nge?_ ”

( _Nice to meet you. How are you?_ )

“Good,” he says the word confidently, not so subtle in comparing your height differences--or your attire. Nor does the way he try to train his walk and stature with your own. The handgun you’ve got strapped to your hip carries tranquilizer rounds anyways, but the presence of it is still there. “ _Matondo. Lolula mono_.”

( _Thanks. Sorry._ )

You shoot him a little quizzical look. “ _Nge ke zola kutuba inki?_ ”

( _What do you mean?_ )

“I… want to.” You smile encouragingly when he struggles to find the right words. You don’t care much for if the structure is correct more so if you can at least understand the message he’s trying to relay. That’s your job at intel, after all. “English? _Ke tubaka_... English.”

“You want to learn to speak English, huh?”

You squeeze his shoulder comfortingly when he hesitates, then nods. With everything’s that happened you can’t lose sight of the little things either. A part of you is haunted, reminded about the last time you had a child soldier running around Mother Base. Camp Omega. Chico. You didn’t understand how Amanda could take the news when she’d found out her little brother had been killed because of what had been done to _Paz_.

Rather teach these children something worthwhile, something better than pulling the trigger. They grew up in a world war-torn, believing this is all there is to offer. In a way you empathize, frowning just a fraction of a second as you remember those nights post-graduation from charm school, towards your training and first deployment. You hadn’t even been seventeen yet. These kids, they still have a chance. They _want_ that chance.

You pause, crouching down to meet his look of slight wonder with a reassuring tilt of your lips. “Sly Rhino will be teaching the English lessons. But, hey… come find me when you have free time and we can practice. Okay?”

* * *

Manoka, you learned the child’s name to be, had religiously sought you out day after day to practice his English. To your delight and pride he’s been picking up on it faster than you ever did in charm school, swapping little stories back and forth in imperfect English, but an outstanding feat to you nonetheless. 

Some of the other kids had come round to your stationed room on deck after class to practice as well, and while you were a little disgruntled and hesitant at first, you’ve learned to leave your door open after 1400 hours to let them filter in. What started as them sitting across from you at your desk while awkwardly sorting through iDroid files, asking questions that they learned in class now turned into something else. A small little snack break in between lessons and physical training to keep them active for the day.

At 1400 today, though, no one is sharp enough to come on the dot through your opened door, and you find this to be _extremely_ unusual. You think maybe Sly Rhino lost track of time, or maybe someone’s been misbehaving in class today, but no one there usually steps out of line that you know of. You wait it out another fifteen minutes, glancing worriedly at the timestamp on your iDroid before standing from your desk to search them out yourself.

There aren’t many decks to these platforms in the first place, and like the original Mother Base honeycomb model they’re pushed together instead of the now standalone, connected by shorter bridges design. Minimizes the risk of anyone falling to the ocean, anyways, but your concern is still their whereabouts.

You find them, finally, when you catch that shock of blonde hair and flying fists.

Sly Rhino is on the deck floor, stars spinning round and round his unconscious form, and the children are standing awkwardly, uncertainly, _terrified_ before him.

_You have **got** to be joking me._

“Eli!” you call out, walking briskly to close the gap. “That’s _enough_ \--”

He scowls something nasty and you’re almost _offended_. Is that the same look Ocelot sees on your own face the moment he even bothers to open his mouth?

You don’t have much time to deliberate on that thought when he suddenly closes the gap himself and a _hunting knife_ nearly drives itself into your windpipe.

Eli’s smaller, faster, more agile that you can be due to his size. He’s quick, _good_ if you want to share a little humility, but back down to brass tacks Eli has presented himself as an enormous _problem_. For starters-- _trying to kill you_.

He may have the speed of a honey badger but you’ve got the weight. His legs come into view and he’s ready to latch himself onto your face like a damned octopus to probably rip your windpipe apart if not for your years of practice drills in CQC. Before contact can be made on his end, your palm comes crashing _hard_ against his exposed sternum, sending him flying back on lost momentum to the very floor at your feet.

The other children are quiet, backed away as you’ve barely broken sweat, boots thudding solidly as you approach Eli’s wheezing form. You snatch the knife from the ground and eye the blonde boy warily, giving the blade a quick inspection to see if any blood had been drawn and if you needed to call Pequod for emergency extraction of Sly Rhino back to medical.

When you’re satisfied after another minute or two that Eli doesn’t have any immediate plans to get up, you glance over at the other kids. “Get him up.” You nod over to the peacefully sleeping Sly Rhino. “Then go back to your rooms. I’m sure he’s got another lesson plan ready for you guys tomorrow. After class practice is cancelled today, no exceptions.”

You’ve still got a wary eye on Eli when Sly Rhino finally comes to, shaking his confused head free when he finds you sending him a look.

“C-Commander,” he stutters, gathering his bearings as he quickly sobers upright. “I’m… commander, I am so, _so_ sorry, Eli and the kids, they...”

“Don’t worry about it,” you reassure him, flipping the bladed end in your fingers to present the handle to him. “Just let Miller know what’s going on down here, he wants consistent updates on the kids.”

“R-Right away, commander.”

You wait for him to go, requesting more personnel to come down your side of the deck as Eli begins to find the strength to sit upright, glowering at your crouched form in front of him all the while.

You _really_ can’t deal with this right now. Ocelot already acts like some adolescent towards you as is; you don’t need an _actual_ kid to make your life anymore of a living hell. You’ve been lucky enough to not have to oversee or babysit Eli as he required special surveillance at all times, but a fight breaks out every damned week if he could help it.

Eli spits to the side, hoping you’ll at least grimace to garner a reaction. You don’t. He seems to forget that you spend your company around _soldiers_ for a living.

He almost looks _disappointed_ , but he’s back to that soured face as always.

You don’t think any amount of the counseling training you’ve had will be enough to change his mind, honestly. Boys like him are dead set in their course but you believe anything could happen. Given enough time he may be able to grow out of his violent tendencies--you’re not asking him to change his stance overnight, just treat everyone around him civilly instead of some free-for-all.

You answered his violence with violence, and that’s all he’s ever going to know. So you stick your hand out in acquiescence as you tower over him, watching his expression change from resentment to dumbfounded.

As soon as it appears it’s gone, his hand reaching lightning fast to slap away your offering and standing on his own two feet alone.

He’s gone before you can even say a word, returning your stretched hand onto a hip as you sigh in aggravation.

* * *

It’s 0230 hours and all you want to do is _sleep_.

You’d just finished filing medical reports on all the children while explaining the current situation here to Kaz, who seems a bit miffed about your safety. You reassure him, though, that things are going as well as can be and you share his perspective on Eli--you don’t think the boy presents much of an outstanding danger, not _yet_ at least, and he needs all the guidance he can get.

With tired hands you yank your headphones down to your neck, hearing the soft murmurs of _Rebel Yell_ buzzing through the weathering foam edges. You wonder how things are going back at Intel. The base overall. The pursuit on gifting Skull Face a fresh Diamond Dog beating. Snake most of all.

With his own hands full, you haven’t spoken to each other since you had to gather your things to leave your room. Your teeth sink into your lower lip, eyeing your charging iDroid on your desk. It’d be a stretch to contact him via radio at this hour but it is _you_ and hopefully that’d be enough to be considered forgiven, right?

There isn’t much time for you to ponder it when there’s a brusque, rapid series of knocks at your door that startle you from your sappy dreaming, and cautiously you eye it.

No one really comes out of their way to see you at this ungodly hour.

Your fingers slip over the safety on your tranquilizer, lowering the volume knob and pressing the stop button on your Walkman.

Who you find at the door is unexpected and _not_ someone you’d want to deal with while trying to fight down a headache.

“Eli,” you breathe out his name in surprise, being mindful of your voice at this hour. Honestly, you’re so stunned by his presence that you can’t help but just _stare_ at him for a good few seconds before he’s giving you another one of those trademark scowls, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

You should really invest in getting this kid a shirt or something--is he _never_ cold?

Unsure of what he wants since he hasn’t even opened his mouth to request anything, you inwardly CQC yourself while stepping aside to allow him into your room. “Did you… want to come in?”

Without a word exchanged he invites himself in, brushing past you with arms still crossed. You blink away the sleep in your eyes and have learned to just take things as is, sighing as you shut the door closed. You don’t know how the hell he got past security but you’re not going to complain about it now, not when he’s already made the journey here.

He seems tense, studying your uncluttered room without much interest. You saw what happened last time when the Boss placed a friendly, brief gesture at his back--you’re not feeling like putting the kid through a table anytime soon and waking up the entire deck. Then again, Eli has a _particular_ hatred for Snake.

You’ll try not to get him to feel the same way about you, keeping your hands to yourself. “Hungry?”

Eli seems a little taken aback by that request. You’re not sending him away, not telling him to go back to bed. You’re not even trying to coddle all of his bad behavior away. You’re just… treating him as is. Respectable, as long as it’s reciprocated. Anyone’s welcomed to come through your door. He just decided on a time when no one else would.

A few minutes later you’re sitting adjacent from him at the makeshift kitchen table wedged at the corner of your room, watching with fascination as he rips through the microwaved burger you’ve set down for him to have. You try not to stare at least--there’s no way in hell he’s ever had a burger out _there_ , it’s just interesting to see his reaction as his first time.

You, on the other hand, are sipping ration pack instant coffee, dark circles hanging under your eyes as you read over miscellaneous reports on your iDroid in silence. What little ambiance is left in the room is coming from your Walkman, headphones unplugged and quietly rolling the tape on _You Spin Me Round_.

“Teach me that,” he says after a bite. You send him a raised brow. “That move you did earlier. Teach me.”

_You mean when you kicked his ass? Now what makes him think you’d be willing share **that?**_

You don’t let anything show in your expression, keeping yourself as blasé and bland as possible. “So you can go around punching more Mother Base staff?”

“Yes.”

_Wow. Just like that._

“Uh-huh.” You scratch your cheek absentmindedly, scrolling through the new list of recruits the Boss had fultoned over the past few weeks. “Yeah, sure. Maybe consider learning about _subtlety_ first and then we’ll talk.”

“I know how to be quiet,” he argues, glowering all the same. _Where the hell did he get that accent? Details like that aren’t hereditary, they’re learned._ “I can do it.”

“Never said you couldn’t,” you remark, taking another sip of your coffee. You glance at his plate and notice he’s still in the midst of devouring your burger. Compared to the other kids he’s just a fraction older. Now it’d be an improvement to see if he at least _acted_ like it. “If things look up here then… maybe. On the side. No promises. And it wouldn’t be regularly scheduled, either.”

You hope that deters him in some way but he seems to find those terms agreeable. _This kid just keeps getting stranger and stranger._ It’s been well-known among the staff that Eli does everything in his power to avoid contact with the adults--tries in vain to convince the others to follow his lead, too. The fact that he sought you out on his own accord is completely unlike him. Of course you’re suspicious--he probably knows it, too, but you try not to present yourself like the others on security detail armed with rifles.

You’re a person to lean on here, a person of guidance, and the kids seem to maximize your time as much as possible. And if Eli’s attached himself to you, you feel you’re going to be stuck on the children’s deck for a long, _long_ time.

God, you look _so_ tired right now. And honestly so does Eli.

You’re scrolling through a few reports through medical when you notice an unusual number of staff members hospitalized and in critical condition. Generally you stay out of medical’s business--that’s more Kaz’s area of expertise, but you’ve never seen this many staff reporting any illnesses, and at this rate. You check through specific members to see if any of the doctors had put up lab results for blood testing or at least a diagnosis on the situation, but can’t seem to find any.

That’s… peculiar. Very much so.

You forward your findings to Miller, Ocelot, and the Boss. Even if it’s not worth your attention you’d rather make sure there aren’t any loose ends to get out of hand. None of the men you saw had been hospitalized because of a mission--all of them had been stationed here, right on the base. 

Several had been from the Angola-Zaire region where Snake had fultoned them back to recruit, but everyone coming in received vaccinations _before_ being allowed free reign. The doctors and nurses down at medical are _always_ on the dot with reports--if it’d been something as simple as a cold going around you’d know right away.

You don’t want to set down your iDroid, but your eyes feel the strain and you don’t have much choice, shutting it off and placing it back down on the tabletop. Naked palms brush against your face, elbows leaning against the wooden surface while your fingertips massage the tension in your forehead.

 _Leave it to medical. They’ll have this under control_.

A few minutes pass and in your sleep-deprived state, you hadn’t really noticed that Eli’s _vanished_ from the table.

Your heart skips a beat, muscle memory in your legs prepared to jump onto the situation when you notice him curled up, boots and all, in the center of your bed. A little snore interrupts his quiet breaths, your expression turning to disbelief.

Now it’s _your_ turn to glower.

_The couch it is._

* * *

Things are generally quiet the day after you’d sent those reports.

That is until a particular chopper comes hovering at the children’s deck helipad, and it’s one you haven’t quite seen before. The kids pause their game of soccer out of curiosity, watching you cross over from your platform to see what the commotion is about. It’s not the chopper manned by Pequod at all--this one has a specific function, and you eye it as you approach beneath the rapidly churning blades.

_Quarantine?_

“Commander,” a combat medic disembarks from the opened door, raising his voice over the sound of the wind above you. iDroid in hand, he seems to double-check some information--against the glare of the sun, you can’t rightly _see_ what he’s checking for until he looks back up at you. “Commander, you need to come with me. Orders from the Boss.”

Well, if this is an emergency that requires your attention you’ll be there as soon as possible.

You don’t hesitate for a moment, nodding to begin climbing aboard when his arm shoots out to block your path.

You raise your brows. “What’s going on?”

He seems at a loss for words, at a loss as to what to even _say_ behind that masked face of his. Still, he finds some nerve, looking you in the eyes head on.

“You don’t know it but you’re _infected_ , commander,” he states matter-of-factly. “And we need to take you to quarantine _now_.”

...Now _that’s_ news to you and says so if your dumbfounded expression is telling any tales.

“I’m… infected?” _What the **hell?**_ “But the kids? What about--?”

His hold on your upper arm is comforting yet firm, helping to steer your shell-shocked form towards the chopper to climb on. “Sly Rhino will get a replacement, commander. For now you need to worry about yourself. This is a base-wide emergency and you’re at risk of infecting others.”

You seat yourself down in disbelief, the medic taking one across from you as he gives a thumbs up towards the pilot for lift off.

Glancing out of the open door you see the kids have long abandoned their game, standing back from the chopper only because of Sly Rhino’s arm keeping them at bay from the high winds and spinning blades. The English teacher himself looks confused, puzzled over the sudden change of events. 

Among them in the back is that familiar touch of blonde hair, arms crossed, scowl and all, his commander beret shoved beneath the epaulet of his shoulder. It’s the last thing you see before take off, but you dare say Eli appears even a _fraction_ worried.

If you’re at risk of infecting others, if you’re _infected_ with something you aren’t aware about… you don’t want the kids worrying about your sorry ass dying over at quarantine. 

As the chopper prepares for lift off, from one commander to another, you throw Eli a quick salute.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You expect Ocelot to be deterred, but it’s not like the man to turn down ideas unless they were your own, or even Kaz’s for that matter. This is the Boss himself, and frankly that new dynamic has your mouth running dry; he wouldn’t deny his idea.

There’s not really much you feel. Not really at first.

Not until you arrived at the quarantine zone, being steered this way and that and getting blood drawn for lab and this and this and _here, this one too_. It’s too much at once--everyone’s asking for something, everyone _needs_ something and it’s sensory overload all too quickly. You’re only ever standing in one place for a moment before you’re being moved to another, then another, _is that Commander Moose? Chain of command gets priority, move ‘em to the front deck…_

When you’re finally stationary long enough you almost miss all of the _movement_ again. It’s even more nerve wracking twiddling your thumbs back and forth, staring at the stark white paint they’ve used for the quarantine platform. That combat medic assigned to you mentioned something about waiting on x-ray results or whatever, his arms crossed and beside you in your seat.

“Where’s the Boss?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, not with what the bustling going around.

Your personal medic sighs, though appears on edge still. Because of the infection? Because of the question itself? “He’s… trying to get us a cure.”

_But what is this? What’s spreading around that’s killing staff day by day?_

You’re more worn out by the numbers you keep seeing. When one soldier dies to it another gets wheeled in by gurney. You’re dropping like _flies_ here and you don’t have a fucking idea as to why. You don’t understand why you’re being coddled by medics when your men, your _family_ are out there hanging to life by a mere thread.

“What is this?” you croak, knuckles whitening the tighter you keep your fists. “What’s going on?”

“It’s a vocal cord parasite,” he informs, trying to keep his voice low against the ambient murmurs. “Triggered by anyone who speaks Kikongo.”

Your eyebrows are deep set in worry, staring up at him in disbelief. “You mean… from me speaking Kikongo, I’m now infected?”

“The details are complicated but… yes, commander. That about sums it up.”

What kind of doomsday bullshit is this? _Biological warfare?_ Is that why medical staff was warning you not to speak Kikongo earlier during your arrival?

“I don’t understand.” The distress in your voice is clear, even more so apparent on your face. “Everyone was vaccinated coming in. Soldiers, children, _anyone_ \--”

“That’s the thing, commander.” He seems just as baffled, arms tightly crossed over his chest as he rocks back and forth on his heels. “The children must’ve given it to you. The parasite only attaches and infects those with matured vocal cords. Meaning the kids back on the children’s deck are hosts; they infected you in turn. Probably didn’t even know it.”

There’s a sharp pain in your lungs that warns you to keep breathing deeply, calmly. Given the situation, it’s hard not to. One question after another comes vomiting up and troubled is an understatement--you feel like you’re losing control of the situation because, for once, you’re left in the dark. Your time in Intel was always about _you_ deploying agents, equipment, modified weather patterns to turn the tide. Always about being one step ahead.

Now that you’ve lost your footing, you’re clutching at shorter and shorter straws.

A doctor finally rushes in with the finished x-rays, propping them up for you to see as you clutch and fidget with your fingers.

“As expected, commander,” the doctor sounds out of breath, yet amazed, “despite your prolonged exposure to the vocal cord parasite, your body’s immune system seems to be able to fight it off from spreading to your lungs.”

Whatever that means, sure--news in your books. It’s the next x-ray he attaches beside it that has your attention.

He continues, pointing out your larynx and the obvious anomaly clouding the mass where your vocal cords are. “But you’re bidding on time, commander. The parasite is still present in you. The more time that passes, the more at risk it puts you for becoming symptomatic. Your immune system will fail on you if we don’t find a cure soon. You’re still a host to the infection.”

“You can’t just use me to counter the parasite?” you insist, palms cold and clammy. “Has anyone else been able to at least prolong the infection?”

“Not to our knowledge, no. I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, commander.”

You seem at a loss, frazzled, misguided. “Then what do we do in the meantime?”

His own palms rub together out of nervous habit, lips thin and pressed together.

“Until the Boss comes back with a cure, we wait.”

* * *

It took a _lot_ of insisting, but medical staff finally caved and moved you to the tents stationed with the other men. Screw priority--you don’t want to be kept hidden away while soldier after soldier that promised themselves to serve this cause, this family _died_ while you were being coddled inside because of your rank. 

Morale at first is low when you enter that tent; some soldiers even under your command are stationed here, but that seems to change even just the slightest bit when you’re seated in a freshly made bed.

“Commander?” Your bedmate to your right seems baffled, sweating, fighting a losing battle but even just that bit of strength is enough to keep him awake. The epiphany that hits him not long after seems to sink his spirits. “You too?”

“Thought you guys needed the company,” you warily answer back. “Yeah, me too.”

His eyes clench shut, teeth gritting. “ _Shit_ , Moose, this is bad.”

“What? Us probably dying?”

“No. _You_ probably dying.”

“Don’t say that,” you warn him, observing the rest of the other patients down your row. Familiar faces all around. There’s a commotion going on down at the opposite end of the tent but you’d been specifically informed not to leave your bed, regardless of whatever situation arises. “Miller, Ocelot, the Boss, they’re working to get this under control. Serves me right for karma in the long run.”

His eyes seem bleary, skin damp with a sheet of sweat, but there’s something he notices about you. “You don’t look so bad, Moose. You sure this ain’t about morale?”

“Got a little lucky. Immune system’s made of tough stuff but the doctor said I’m bidding on time. Prolonged exposure will tear apart my white blood cells from being able to fight it off for long.”

“Hell. No need to flaunt it around.”

“Didn’t I just say I’m bidding on time?” you grumble, meeting the eyes of anyone looking your way. Even if some of them don’t make it in the long run, you don’t want them going off believing they were ever alone. You’re a team. What they suffer through, you suffer too. Miller’s words come racing around you, about phantom limbs. He would know it better than anyone.

“What’s your name?” you ask him, watching his chest struggle for breath but he’s still insistent on _fighting it back_.

“Boa,” he replies, short of breath. “It’s Iron Boa, commander. Of the combat team.”

“I’ll remember you, Boa,” you promise. “Just hang on tight.”

He didn’t make it past midnight. He’d woken up screaming, delirious, _not himself_. Clawing at the sheets, at the staff trying to hold him down, at his own throat to fight against the pain flaring and spreading there. When they’d ripped apart his shirt uniform his discolored, blackened lungs had melted through his skin. He died on the spot, wordlessly, painfully.

This death performs slow, and kills even slower.

The bedmate to your left, Gray Mongoose, dies the next day shortly after. The moment his vitals flatline, medical staff hurriedly wheel him off with the rest of the other dead casualties. The pus and blood from his wounds stain the sheets, but they’re quickly removed and replaced with fresh linen. If the parasite doesn’t kill you, you’re sure the constant beating reminder of who’s going to die next will.

It’s not until later that day do you experience your first real tremor, goosebumps on your flesh and chills shivering across your body. Your breath feels short, pained, acute.

Finally, it’s your turn.

* * *

You’d asked your personal medic what the weather conditions were like, but it _still_ feels too cold for you here.

You wanted nothing more than to bundle up, shivering and shaking in your boots but he’s adamant in keeping you awake and making sure to keep tabs on your vitals. He’s also steadfast in not letting you pull at the sheets to try and cover your shaking body with it despite your quiet complaints and grumbling. Any other situation and you’re sure he’d hand you his jacket in a heartbeat, but you know what this means. _He_ knows what this means and he’s trying not to let the panic settle in his body language, his voice. You know terrified when you see it.

_He’s scared to see you die._

Swallowing hurts. He has to give you water through a _sponge_ every ten to fifteen minutes. You keep insisting that you’re freezing but the temperature readings are fevered, overwhelmingly hot. Every opportunity you have to slumber off is interrupted by your own nauseated mind, eyelids heavy and sore. Your teeth clatter together. Your bones ache. Your breath shivers.

You don’t notice his gloved hand taking yours against the mattress, squeezing comfortingly to keep you grounded.

Maybe to keep him grounded, too?

 _He likes me. I should report him for fraternization. Oh, hah, wait..._

Even moving your facial muscles is a chore, but you can’t help yourself--you shyly chuckle a little despite how scratchy your throat sounds, catching his attention. “I don’t even know your name.”

It’s the first time you’ve spoken in a few hours, and he clears his own throat, straightening up a little. Like you even care. You’re literally wetting your clothes with sweat, your hair is a bird’s nest, you haven’t been allowed to shower in _days_. No matter what, he’s a far cry prettier than you’ll ever be right now.

“It’s Vampire Slug, commander.”

His proverbial eyebrows race past his hairline through his mask when your body starts shaking--not with more shivers, but with _silent laughter_. 

Your voice is hoarse, eyes clenched shut as you try to fight through the pain with another wheezing laugh. “Oh, my _God_ , who the hell gave you _that_ name?”

If you could see his face well enough he’d probably be shooting you a dirty look. “Well, what kind of name is _Moose?_ ”

“The kind of name of your commanding officer, that’s what.”

“Commander, _please_ ,” he pleads, antsy, on edge. “Save your breath. _Stop talking_.”

Sure, maybe you would’ve complied since he’d asked so nicely. Maybe if you didn’t hear that familiar rattle of a spur against the deck floor, didn’t become so attuned and fixated on that sound to suddenly feel a swelling surge of _rage_ rattle your nerves. Without knowing, your fingers clench tightly around Vampire Slug’s the closer those footsteps come--you can barely move your body on your own, locked in this frenzied cold sweat of fright.

That bandolier of bullets, that vermillion scarf with matching gloves to boot. Your eyes travel upwards from his tucked in shirt against dark slacks to the Tornado-6 revolver in one of his many holsters, then finally to that patch of exposed, smooth flesh peeking beneath his button-up shirt. Silver hair, blue eyes, an attractive face to die for.

Raging pain or not, your hand surges suddenly, _violently_ off the bed and fists into his neatly tucked shirt in the blink of an eye.

Every language you know is running through your mind--you’re still rational enough to think of at least _one_ to spit back at him, to let him know how much he deserves your hate and rage and _pain_ right now. In the back of your mind’s eye you can feel Vampire Slug’s palms trying to push you back down into your pillow, his voice pleading again, first at you then to other staff around the tent.

You want Ocelot to feel what he’s done to you. Hear it in a language he understands. _He’s_ not the one laying in bed waiting to die.

“ _Èto ty hotel_ ,” you stammer and spit the words at him like venom, fingers clenching, yanking at his shirt to pull him closer. Distinctly you feel his large, gloved hands gently trying to pry away yours, his voice even more compassionate, tender, and if anything that only serves to make you all the more _outraged_. “ _Ty sdelal èto so mnoy!_ ”

_You wanted this. You did this to me._

“No.” Ocelot’s voice is slow, calm and maddeningly intimate. You don’t seem to notice how teary-eyed you’d become in your fit of rage, the solemn, merciful way he gazes down upon your streaky cheeks. “I didn’t want this. Not even for you.”

Every fiber in your being is screaming that he’s lying, _he’s a liar_. And yet his palms skate gently down the back of your arms as if to calm you, as if to ask you for forgiveness, guiding you to lay back against the disarrayed sheets and pillows. Your eyes are locked with his bright blue ones the entire way. He’ll stab you in the back the moment you face the other direction to give him it.

“It’s okay now, Moose.” His voice is calming, soothing somehow. “It’s okay. It’ll be over. You’ll be fine.”

Until now you haven’t noticed your shaking hands against Ocelot’s forearms until they fall away back to the sweat stained sheets, body suddenly feeling boneless and weak. You’re not so much delirious than you are slightly dazed, quieted now with short breaths as you feel Ocelot’s fingers brush away the hair against your forehead, comfortingly smoothing it back.

Your half-lidded eyes make out the form of a very, _very_ old man wheeling up beside Ocelot, then the tiny, painful prick of a needle against your skin.

It takes a moment, but for the first time you can feel how cooling the air really is here. Memories that suddenly bring you quiet peace. Like the grooves and texture of Snake’s facial scars. The clean scent of Kaz’s aftershave. D.D. cuddling up into your side while you slept. Manoka and his friends sharing snacks in your room, laughing together all the while and singing along to your cassette tapes. Eli’s sleeping, serene face stuffed into your pillow in the center of your bed.

For the first time, gazy heavy, there’s something about Ocelot that sticks out to you that never did before. It’s potent enough to make you drowsy, to meet his gaze one last time now that he’s this close.

However subtle it is, masked by gunpowder, antiseptic, and salty breeze, the man is wearing an attractive cologne.

And you can’t help but fall dreamless into sleep.

* * *

The smell of cologne vanishes, and in its place something light. Sweeter. Pure.

There are stars of Bethlehem on the nightstand beside you, and you realize slowly that you’re not in a tent anymore. Stiff, itchy, medical deck-issued covers blanket you from the waist down, and you know for sure now that Vampire Slug’s insistence had finally been overruled. There’s no sign of the loyal combat medic himself, no sign of _anyone_ here aside from the sounds of medical tech and your own monitored vitals.

The patient board information hanging near the door has _Moose_ written into it, along with _soft diet_ , your current assigned doctor, nurse, and technician. The corner of your drying lips upturn when you read _Vampire Slug_ among them. So you didn’t scare him off after all, huh?

It’s as if the thought alone is powerful enough to summon him, the door to your room suddenly sliding open and your heart hammering when you watch him stroll through, clipboard in hand and looking deeply invested in his reading. He doesn’t look up at all during the ordeal, shapely thick eyebrows knitting together as he busies himself with jotting down notes there.

Eyebrows. Non-proverbial. _Huh_. You didn’t really think he’d look half-bad without the mask, honestly.

Swallowing feels dry and you almost regret the needed action, fingers feeble against the mattress. As if your tongue feels any heavier--you try to get his attention, working on shifting a leg or something, and the concept of _time_ seems lost upon you about how long you’ve been stationed here.

The most you can muster, eyes half-lidded, is a breathy, “ _Hey._ ”

That _does_ get his attention alright--Vampire Slug darts upright, eyes wide, staring at you head-on like you’d waken from the dead.

Your smile only lasts until he suddenly bolts out of the door like a madman, clipboard clattering noisily to the floor as his footsteps fade, voice comically screeching in the hallways.

As expected, news travels fast around Mother Base, especially when Vampire Slug goes around screaming at the top of his lungs about how _Commander Moose has finally woken up, holy **fuck**_. Being alone is only a momentary pleasure when doctors and nurses suddenly hound into your room, and all too quickly you’re ironically feeling more sick by just the sheer volume of them bustling through.

What you believe to be a makeshift window looks like a door that opens up into a small deck on the second level, teasing clear blue sky, crying seagulls and crashing waves. _Windows are a structural weakness my ass._ If you’d known the medical deck had rooms like these you would’ve asked for a transfer in a heartbeat. That breeze feels _heavenly_.

With medical staff finally done harassing you, Vampire Slug comes in with a tray full of food and drink, setting it on the table at your bedside. You thank him despite distinctly remembering _soft diet_ issued by your doctor, but seem convinced that the ordeal is a far cry better than a liquid only one.

“You should eat, commander,” Vampire Slug insists, attaching his iDroid back on his hip. “You’ve been comatose for a few weeks, it’d be good to have something in your stomach.”

If he starts talking about bowel movements you’re going to chuck your lunch at him.

He shoots you an amused look at the skeptical face you make before waving him over to help maneuver your bed to sit upright. You poke and prod at the meal they’d prepare for you and seem more fixated on the gelatin portion of what you’ve been provided, Vampire Slug crossing his arms to make sure you’re not spitting it into your napkin.

It’d be really nice to have D.D. around for this job.

“Comatose, huh?” you muse around your spoon, humorously jiggling the squared dessert. “Anyone else from quarantine in my boat?”

“Anyone quarantined for infection who haven’t been symptomatic are cured,” he states confidently. “All thanks to Code Talker. For you, though…”

“Simplify it for me.”

“You’re cured, commander, or at least the infection shouldn’t have any reason to come back. It’s still _there_ but Code Talker’s countermeasure transformed the reproductive bacteria to become male-to-male instead of male-to-female.”

“Right, of course.” You disinterestedly poke at what you presume is mashed potatoes. “Doesn’t really answer why I went into a coma.”

“Your body was over-exerting itself just trying to stave off the infection alone, commander. We’re just glad you woke up soon and not… you know, _nine years_. Anyways, you should really finish your lunch. Visiting hours are opening soon and, well--you’ve got people waiting in line to see you.”

You wish his words are a figure of speech but it _isn’t_.

The first wave of visitors is Kaz, of course, followed by Vampire Slug wheeling in the old man you’d seen beside Ocelot all those weeks ago. He introduces himself as Code Talker as Kaz takes a seat at your bedside, gripping onto his cane for support.

“I hear you’re the one responsible for saving our asses.” You smile, hands resting against your stomach. “I hope you’re getting a proper thanks for that. I owe you--more than one.”

“Perhaps,” Code Talker begins, “we can start by discussing your fight against the Kikongo strain.”

He explains to you the cure he brought with him--the Wolbachia, then dives into the specific details of how _you_ took to the infection. It’s not much in terms of defense but you’d been around the kids for quite a while--he’s surprised you lasted as long as you did, and while it isn’t total _immunity_ per se, it is notable to him that your case differs slightly than others. If it helps him in preventing further infections, you’re a willing helper.

“We want to keep your samples to study,” Code Talker explains, “if you’ll allow us.”

“Of course,” your reply is instantaneous. “I don’t have an issue with it at all.”

“We thought it’d be best you stay here for some time,” Kaz adds, taking great notice of your changing expression. “I know you don’t want to, but we think it’s for the best. At least until you’re cleared by the doctors.”

That means no practice CQC drills, no teaching the new recruits not to fire from the hip like a spaghetti western, and _no playing fetch with D.D. on command deck_. Almost dying sure has a lot of consequences attached to it. You don’t see why you can’t work from here anyways, or at least just be stationed behind a desk until you recover for physical work.

That train of thought seems to trail into Kaz’s, who shoots you a bit of a lopsided smirk. He leans closer, using his cane to aid him in doing so. “In other words, commander… consider this _my_ vacation for you.”

You almost flush. Almost.

“For almost getting you killed, anyways,” he dryly continues, leaning back into his seat. “We almost lost you there, Moose. Prolonged exposure nearly decimated your immune system. It’ll take time to get you back to speed but I want you to take it easy. Do it for me.”

Alright, he got you on _that_ one.

If he notices your reddening face he doesn’t speak on it--you can’t really tell where his eyes are in this lighting, but he cranes his head over his shoulder when Vampire Slug alerts him to the time limitation. He wasn’t kidding about the list earlier.

Before he parts, Kaz turns his head your way once more. “Oh, and I’ve spoken with the kids. They’re worried sick--expect to see them soon, too.”

You bid them farewell shortly after, accepting the cup of water Vampire Slug pours for you. The next group of visitors funneling in and out are staff at intel, keeping you in the loop about what you missed and the latest gossip going around. It’s nothing important, really, but having them around puts into perspective how many people you really interact with just on a day-by-day basis, let alone over a _decade_. Someone leaves a picturesque bowl of fruit on the shelf and you wonder where they had even found it in the first place.

The next visitor you have, to your wry amusement, doesn’t belong on the list, and most definitely has Vampire Slug’s attention.

“Hey,” your personal medic begins to stand at attention, turning to the blonde boy at the door. “You’re not supposed to be here. Children’s deck is scheduled at a later time, kid, you can’t--”

Your hand grasping his wrist stops him there, smiling up at him. “Let him in. I want to see him.”

The nasty glare Eli sends Vampire Slug is met with one in return, and you almost _laugh_ at them. Eli brushes past him, arms crossed tightly over his chest, and for once you finally notice those little scars against his cheek, his lip, _everywhere_. A part of you wonders if Kaz ever had a son, he would look precisely like the blonde boy before you.

He doesn’t say anything at first, so you do. “Snuck past hospital staff. That’s not an easy feat considering how long I’ve known these guys.”

Eli scoffs as if he’s unimpressed with the challenge, questionably glancing along your relaxed form.

“You said you’d teach me.”

You sip at your water, blinking owlishly at his words. “You want to fight me here? Right now? I can barely go to the bathroom on my own, you sure you wanna deal with _that?_ ”

That gets a horribly concealed snort from Vampire Slug, who covers his laughter as a bad cough.

You send Eli a reassuring look, making good on your promise. “Look, I almost died. I’m not superhuman like you are. But I accept your challenge if I can at least stand up long enough to go to the bathroom by myself.”

He’s quiet, weighing your words, then seems to accept those terms. Sensing all there is to it, Vampire Slug goes to guide Eli back out of the exit until the boy reaches for his pocket, gloved hand passing his conch shell before pulling out the tangle of objects and dropping it onto the mattress.

It’s your Walkman, a little weathered from its temporary owner’s use but in safe condition nonetheless.

Without another word, Eli leaves on his own, your smile still wide as you fumble to put on your headphones and press play. The tape is in the middle of _True_ , and you grin even wider.

Visiting hours temporarily close during your lunch hour, and the meal isn’t much of an improvement. You try in vain to convince Vampire Slug to sneak you in something better but the man is steadfast on staying true to your diet, leaning against the doorframe leading to the balcony. Short, cropped hair with shaved sides, a particularly strong jawline as he lifts a cigarette up to his lips to suck in a breath.

You’re reminded of Snake and you _miss him_.

“Where’s the Boss?” you find yourself asking this again, some deja vu that has you picking at your food once more. You can’t bring yourself to feel disappointed no matter what you tell yourself--he has a duty, an obligation not just singularly towards you but the entirety of the Diamond Dogs. If something requires his attention then you can’t be selfish to get in the way of that.

“Busy,” Vampire Slug blows out a casual plume of smoke, and it reminds you of something else, _someone_ else, though you’re not sure what or who. “I didn’t see him on the waiting list, commander. Business that needs his attention, I’m sure.”

“Yeah,” you agree quietly, pushing away your meal in favor of the tea they’ve provided you. “How long have you been with us, Vamp?”

Being with him this long, he actually appears surprised and caught off guard by the question. Not the nature of it, really, but the fact that the focus is directed at _him_. His silence is short-lived and he taps away at the ash, looking over his shoulder at you while clearing his throat.

“Been here a while myself. Veteran of MSF. I was a medic even then.”

That explains why he’s assigned to you of all people. Probably one of their top-tier combat medics to boot, someone up on the echelon. No wonder he’d been so hell bent on making sure you survived--you don’t know if you could handle the pressure about allowing a commanding officer to die under your watch, either, much less watch them die painfully and slow.

Around you, Vampire Slug lets his guard down, something you’ve noticed and haven’t taken for granted. You can tell when he’s agitated--which is rarely ever, but something seems to gnaw at him like some unanswered question he can’t seem to find.

So he asks you instead. “I worked with a guy then. Really good at what he did, probably the best medic we ever had. Hell, he was always the best guy period. Better than me. I don’t think he made it that day, commander.”

He doesn’t have to specify the bombing, the Trojan Horse, the destruction of your home.

You want to give him the closure he seeks but can’t seem to find the answer he wants. Your eyebrows knit together, like some deja vu memory in passing, unable to put your finger on a name or a face.

Your tea is cold by the time you respond back. “I don’t think he made it either.”

Another tendril of cigarette smoke streams between his lips, flicking the spent butt into the ocean.

* * *

The only reason you allow Ocelot into your room at all is because of _who_ he brought along with him, and the discovery shocks you _immensely._

Like distant relatives that haven’t seen their nieces and nephews in years, you’re suffocated beneath the weight of a _very_ large dog lapping eagerly at your squirming face.

You sputter and stare at the panting, elongated and matured snout of D.D. with wide eyes. “...What the hell have you been _feeding_ him?!”

The little puppy you once stole from the hands of Ocelot to cuddle at your side is now as tall as you are, leaving a distinct depression against your mattress with an enthusiastically waving tail. Like his papa wolf he now bears an eyepatch, sitting obediently on his haunches--until you coddle him, of course.

He’s still the affectionate D.D. you know and love, nuzzling into your chest and finding comfort on your lap despite his weight.

Ocelot looks amused if anything, arms crossed and leaning against the wall adjacent to you. Vampire Slug had left long ago at Ocelot’s request for a private conversation, which you suppose doesn’t really work either of your favors in terms of gossip.

Regardless of all that’s happened, you can’t help but still feel wary about the man and he knows it.

“It wasn’t just me responsible for reassigning you that day,” he tries to explain, though you seem rather disinterested, D.D. resting against your chest. “We needed someone up in the chain of command there, Moose. Someone to at least keep the children in check and you _did_ that. We didn’t expect what happened to happen. Whatever you think of it, it wasn’t personal, it wasn’t about me trying to kill you.”

What, are people back to murdering each other since your absence? It sure does sound that way coming from him, your fingers dragging through D.D.’s fur and between his ears.

And what’s beautiful about this all, about you and Ocelot and this entire ordeal is that it only seems to be about the rumor. It’s true then, all of it. No thoughts about phantoms, cigar smoke, Cyprus hospitals or whaling ships.

In this world, it really is two plus two equals five, and you don’t even know it.

Ocelot appears visibly uncomfortable if only for a moment, biting his lip as you continue to ignore him. He’s not here asking for forgiveness, no.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” he quietly informs, clearing his throat once said. “...About you and me. And the Boss.”

You glance in his direction momentarily, noticing something strange. He hasn’t come any closer to you since he entered the room and fixed himself to that spot, arms over his chest, legs casually crossed over the other where he stands. Closed off body language, not exactly directing his voice nor his eyes at you.

You get the you and him bit, but not the Boss.

When you don’t seem to visibly construct any of it together, Ocelot cautiously sighs out a brittle breath. Like he’s… _flustered?_ For a man of his caliber is that even possible?

He acts like the words are literally choking up his throat as he slowly begins to explain, “The Boss thinks that… I’m interested in you. Romantically.”

You stare at him, face unchanging, unreadable, and wordless. A part of him wishes that you would continue to ignore him, but for whatever reason he doesn’t seem to enjoy this new word around town that even has the Boss taking him aside for cross examination.

“Do you?” you pose the question without an ounce of shame, and it almost catches him off guard by the sheer forwardness of it.

“What?” He helps himself to a short laugh, but it doesn’t quite match his expression. “Why would I? You’re with the _Boss_ , I know better than to… what, do _you?_ ”

“Don’t turn this on me. He’s the one who suspected _you_.”

He’s quick to deny it, firm in his _no_ , finally taking a step towards you as if it could help prove his point any further. He still seems bothered--by what? You pointing the finger at him and calling him out, or because he has more to say that he isn’t letting on? A part of you wants to reassure him that whatever pining emotions he has is completely normal--he’s not a brick wall, it’s not some switch to flip on and off.

You eye that tanned flesh at his chest, the length of his silver-blonde hair barely brushing his shoulders. That matching stubble against his jawline, his clenched fists. If he takes another step closer you might just catch onto his cologne.

Your voice is soft, meeting his blue gaze. “Did he tell you to back off?”

That thought doesn’t seem to register in his mind’s eye but he’s fixated on you, eyebrows coming together as he seems to recall the conversation. “...No.”

This denial stays put, D.D. oblivious to the brewing tension as Ocelot seems at a loss for words now, lips drawn together. Maybe all that hate and annoyance had been good for something--maybe he’s trying to find his own comfortable spot to dispel those feelings, but your words are true.

You watch his Adam’s apple bob to swallow, and you can catch that drifting cologne now.

“That’s dangerous,” he lowly warns, fingers curling into his palm and you can hear the leather squeezing. He isn’t saying yes.

He isn’t saying no, either.

D.D.’s abrupt squirming in your lap suspends that electric shock of air, Ocelot taking a step back when heavy boots enter your room. Paw pads rapidly tap against the flooring as D.D. barks and whimpers at the feet of his loyal savior, a deeper blue that you’re so familiar with finding your gaze.

You don’t catch yourself fast enough, breathless and holding your hand out for him to take. “ _Jack_.”

He only ever spares a nod of acknowledgement towards Ocelot, who has trained his face back into composure while stepping back to allow you two space. Those callous fingers grip onto yours, gentle at first but then the cool, salty breeze is enveloped into you, face digging into the warmth of his neck. His arms are around you, holding you against his chest where your cheek now rests, hands at his back to press him impossibly closer.

Ocelot has D.D. by the collar and at his side, but you can’t help but feel those cool eyes on you both.

Fingertips trace lightly against the crest of your cheekbone before his fleshy palm fully cups your jaw, pulling away just enough to appraise you. There’s something about him that seems shaken--his full, scarred lips slightly parted, eye never staying on one single part of you, like he want’s to reassure himself that you’re still here with him. His prosthetic is cradling your bent arm by the elbow where he sits on the edge of your bed, his presence nearly overwhelming.

“Scared us half to death out there,” he finally says, palm finding safety against the side of your neck. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like hell,” you laugh out, “get me out of here, please?”

He takes one look over at Ocelot and the cowboy is shaking his head, none too pleased. “Probably not a good idea.”

“We could do the box trick again,” you throw out. “Shipping won’t have a clue.”

When Snake doesn’t seem to disagree, Ocelot’s already prepared to play it down. “Now that is definitely _not_ the recommended plan.”

“Well, since we’re stuck here, I suppose,” you shoot Ocelot a look, “guess that makes comatose for two of us.”

“Yeah,” Snake let’s the word out around a scoff. “Let’s not make it a habit.”

Contact is lost only for a brief second as he fumbles to reach into his pack, pulling out your long-abandoned iDroid and placing it in your hand. “And let’s not forget about this either.”

It’s freshly charged, meaning it had died sometime during your absence and then taken under Snake’s wing. Given the last place you had it was on the children’s deck, he eases your questions without needing to have them asked.

“Moved your belongings into your room on command deck. You’ve been reassigned to Intel--looks like you and Ocelot can reacquaint yourselves again.”

What sounds innocent at first sails directly over your head. Not until the Intel commander himself appears put on the spot, D.D. on his haunches and at his side panting in pure obliviousness. You don’t realize how importantly involved you really are in this conversation until it’s much too late, glancing between them both before finally catching up on the crumb trail.

“... _Seriously?_ ”

“If it’ll get you two to finally get along, then no. I don’t mind, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You expect Ocelot to be deterred, but it’s not like the man to turn down ideas unless they were your own, or even Kaz’s for that matter. This is the _Boss_ himself, and frankly that new dynamic has your mouth running dry; he wouldn’t deny his idea. The gunslinger’s lips are drawn, expression speaking more volumes than his words ever can.

Engaging in this… _fiasco_ doesn’t particularly harm any involved party. It’ll only be over-complicatedly if someone _makes_ it complicated, and you suppose there really isn’t a drawback if it satisfies everyone. Perhaps you’re the only one here with concerns revolving how it would look on the outside, how it would disrupt the smooth sailing of life here on Mother Base.

Maybe Ocelot doesn’t share that concern at all, his eyes falling to you.

Finally, with a hand on his hip, he answers simply. “I don’t mind, either. If you don’t, Moose.”

Sure, you haven’t given a definitive answer, but it doesn’t escape either men that you haven’t been opposed or _disinterested_. You have your own causes for concern though, panic in your voice. “Wouldn’t that… affect morale? _Negatively?_ ”

“What?” Snake poses, reaching for his phantom cigar. “You two burying the hatchet for good? You don’t find anything inspirational about that?”

So no one needs to know the _how_ part about it then.

You fumble with the lighter function on your iDroid, bringing the flame up to its end. “Is this propaganda to boost morale or an excuse for this to not be a Snake and Moose exclusive?”

Clouds of smoke enter your vision, and all that Snake has left to say on the matter are the final words shared that night.

“You two are head of intelligence. You’ll always find alternate means aside from the compromised ones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> accidentally makes this chapter longer than anticipated... and thank you for those amazing kudos. <33
> 
> alternates to latin/cyrillic text for dialogue.
> 
> \- Это ты хотел/Èto ty hotel  
> \- Ты сделал это со мной/Ty sdelal èto so mnoy


End file.
